by Tony Roberts
The servants began clearing up as the last left, and Jorqel stood in the doorway looking at the mess with dismay. Bottles, plates, food and crumpled hand cloths lay everywhere. At least, unlike the street parties, comatose party revellers weren’t included here.
Walis came up to him and stopped with a bow. “Lord, your tally list.”
Jorqel took the sheet of parchment and thanked the man, who smiled and moved off. Jorqel walked slowly through the refuse-strewn room, peering at the marks on the dull yellow material. It confirmed what he was feeling inside.
Sannia Nicate was clearly the leader.
The following morning, in the palace of Kastan, Isbel sat at her desk in her day room, ruminating over the day’s schedule ahead of her. Breakfast had been a strained affair, Argan not speaking nor looking her in the eye. He was certainly unsettled and Isbel found it impossible to break through the barrier he had put up. It cast a cloud over her thoughts. Pepil and Frendicus stood to either side of her, waiting on her commands, while other palace officials sat on the other side of the desk ready to take messages should they be required.
There came a knock on the door and it opened, to show one of the minor officials under Pepil. Pepil excused himself and went over to the official and they exchanged briefly. Pepil came over to the empress. “Your majesty, there is a Panat Afos outside wishing to speak with you. It appears he is very insistent. He has with him Prince Argan, Captain Vosgaris and another child.”
Isbel sighed. She had an idea what this was about. “Very well, show them all in.”
The scarred weapons trainer was shown in, preceded by Prince Argan as etiquette dictated, and a child the same size and age as Argan trotted in nervously next. Vosgaris brought up the rear and stood pointedly behind Argan, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Isbel clasped her hands together. It seemed people were conspiring together. Well, it had better be good or heads would roll.
“You have something to say to me, Afos?” The tone was cool and peremptory.
But instead of being cowed or intimidated, the scarred man bowed low and addressed her with a strong, even voice. “Your highness, I have served the empire for many years in the saddle. I am what you might call a professional soldier and have given many years of my life to Kastania, no matter who was on the throne. Would it surprise you to know that I served as one of your husband’s bodyguards in many campaigns, both against the Tybar and in the Bragal Rebellion?”
“I didn’t know that, Afos,” Isbel was genuinely surprised. She glanced at Pepil. “Is this true?”
“So it would appear, ma’am,” the major domo inclined his head. “Afos was recommended for the post of weapons trainer to your son by the emperor himself. I have the order in my offices.”
“Very well,” Isbel turned back to the patiently waiting man. “You may continue.”
Panat Afos pointed to his scar. “I got this seven years ago, saving the life of your husband. We were ambushed early on in the Bragal Rebellion, before we got used to their method of warfare; we were riding to one of his family estates that he had heard was being attacked, but it was a trap. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by hordes of madly screaming Bragal bandits and General Astiras, as he was then called, was pulled from his horse and was about to be butchered on the spot. I waded in, hacking left and right, slaying men as I went, and pulled him up onto my saddle, but as I did one of the animals that call themselves men slashed at me and caused me great injury. The general rode both of us out of the trap along with just five others.”
The chamber was silent. Argan stood open-mouthed at hearing the tale, as did Kerrin. Vosgaris was inscrutable, while Isbel listened on with her eyes wide in astonishment.
Panat carried on. “I was very ill, gravely wounded, and many thought I would not survive, but survive I did, and one of the camp followers who tended me became my wife. A year later Kerrin here was born.” He smiled down at his son who smiled back. “General Astiras was generous and gave us enough money to set up a home, but I was unable to carry on as a member of his bodyguard. My injury was too severe. I cannot ride for very long these days and I suffer from time to time with severe headaches. Of course, in the latter days of the previous emperor, the military was not looked upon with any favour, and the sight of a battle scar was viewed as a mark of shame, not a mark of honour!” Panat sounded bitter, as might he well. “But thank the gods your husband took over and restored the military to its rightful place, banishing those who talk clever but deliver nothing. And although we struggled at times because nobody wanted to employ an ex-soldier, we came through. Now the empire once again views people like me with respect.”
“My husband is very keen to ensure people who fight for the empire are rewarded suitably.”
“Ma’am, many agree with him, myself included. But I hear that you have an objection to my son befriending Prince Argan. May I please ask why?”
Isbel looked at the weapon trainer. She was aware all eyes had turned to her and she felt far more self-conscious than she ought to in front of a commoner. “It is my decision as a mother to see that my son grows up with people who will be in his social circle.”
“With due respect, ma’am, is it not true that Prince Argan here is to be trained by me to be a warrior? And as a warrior he will require an elite bodyguard, just as your husband, the emperor, has? Is it not true that many of these bodyguards will be from common backgrounds? I, a commoner, saved your husband’s life. I nearly gave my life to save him. If it were not for me, then this fine young man here,” he indicated Argan, “would not be standing here today. My son, Kerrin, is also to be trained as a warrior, and who knows, perhaps these two boys will grow up together and become sword-mates. I beseech you, ma’am, not to disrespect what I have done for the Koros family and deny these two a friendship that may one day end up with one saving the life of the other.”
Isbel considered the faces before her. She lingered the longest on Argan. Finally she sighed and leaned back. “You are right, Panat Afos. I have little knowledge of the relationships between warriors, and as you say, we owe you more than can be measured. Argan,” she looked directly at her son, “if you wish to be friends with Kerrin here, then you may.”
Argan’s broke open into a beam of such delight that Isbel’s heart jumped. In that moment she realised she had been the cause of the rift, not Argan, and not Vosgaris. She had to fight to keep the tears from her eyes. Argan clasped his hands together and smiled at Kerrin who was smiling even wider. Isbel glanced at Vosgaris who nodded approvingly. The empress waved the group out, but she got a smile from Argan which made her feel even better.
“Now,” she said with renewed energy, “what is the first item of the day?”
“The financial demands from Prince Jorqel,” Frendicus said heavily. “Is he trying to bankrupt us all?”
Isbel held out her hand for the scroll in the financier’s hand. Oh well, she thought, back to business.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The new morning in Slenna was met by groans and complaints from many of the soldiers. The celebrations had gone on well past the dead of night, almost to dawn in some instances. The more reluctant to leave had to be encouraged by the unit officers, accompanied by curses and kicks, and even the threat of punishment.
Men coming on duty that morning were sluggish, clutching their heads and comparatively silent. The deliberate placing of feet betrayed delicate heads and stomachs, and more than one unsympathetic comrade shouted a hearty greeting to those who were suffering.
One of the sufferers was Gavan. He came into Jorqel’s day chamber somewhat late and sat heavily in the chair opposite his master’s desk and held his head for a moment. Jorqel, not having drunk too much the night before, had already begun his work and had been writing furiously. Now he stopped, looked up and surveyed his silent and white-faced bodyguard. “Overdid it, didn’t you?”
“Oh, by the gods,” Gavan breathed, “please don’t tell me I’m still alive and that this is a living night
mare!”
Jorqel put his quill back into his pot and clasped his fingers together thoughtfully. “You’re not yet dead, Gavan, and if you’re too unwell to perform your normal duties because you’re holding onto last night’s poor quality wine, I suggest you empty your guts into the garderobe and return here looking more like a bodyguard and less like a corpse.”
“Please, sire, take pity on me,” Gavan whined. “I can’t even remember most of what happened last night.”
“No pity,” Jorqel said brusquely. “Self-inflicted. Now go throw up in the garderobe and report here after you do. We have work to do and you’ll be required to ride later today. Woe betide anyone of my guard – including yourself – who is incapable of escorting me into the countryside.”
Gavan groaned, heaved himself out of his chair, and stumbled through the opening in the room to the far left and turned out of sight along a narrow corridor. Jorqel shook his head and resumed writing. Slenna badly needed work done on it. The existing defences were woefully inadequate and of such poor quality that anyone could reasonably be expected to smash them in. Now he was inside he could see just how badly they had been allowed to decay. If he’d known fully how bad they were, he would have smashed them in along the entire length of the wall and flooded in.
The castle was falling apart. He doubted any work had been done on the wooden construction for some years. The roofs leaked, there were plants growing out of walls and many of the wooden buildings had rotten walls or roofs. He had asked for hundreds of furims from Kastan but doubted he’d get much. The port of Efsia needed modernising; the roads needed repair work. But most of all Slenna had to be rebuilt. So he had laid out plans to tear down the castle, rip up the existing town walls – which were only of wood anyway – and lay a new one outside their present line. He anticipated a growth in Slenna once things settled down and the new arrivals would need space to live in.
This would in turn require new municipal buildings. How he was to get the money for this was anyone’s guess, but he’d do what he could. Then there was the problem of his new project, the mounted archers. The new stables and training yard had been built outside the walls by his soldiers during the siege, but they now lay empty because there were no equines or riders to fill the buildings and stalls.
Gavan reappeared, eventually, and looked ashen-faced but at least he was moving better. Jorqel completed his paperwork and called in the castellan, Fostan Caras. “Take these to the riders. They are to be sent to Kastan and the various noble families who were here last night. They are clearly marked.”
Caras took the sealed letters and bowed. “Are you riding far this day, sire?”
“Just for the day. We shall be back before dark.”
The castellan bowed again and left. Gavan stood up as Jorqel waved him to the doorway, now merely covered by a cloth screen. The castle was becoming more like a ruin every day. “How are we to get the materials and men to rebuild the castle, sire? There’s hardly enough to pay the garrison as it is.”
“I have a plan,” Jorqel smiled mysteriously and led Gavan out and down the steep staircase to the bailey where the rest of the fifty-four strong bodyguard unit were waiting. Their equines were saddled, harnessed and ready for them. They mounted up, Gavan rather gingerly, and Jorqel led the group out of the castle, the wooden gates being swung open for them by two guards. Beyond was the town, or to be precise, the large village of Slenna. The road ran to the square, a dusty space bordered by a few houses, then they turned right and trotted down a short slope to the criss-cross road pattern of the main part of the settlement.
After turning left, Jorqel led the men through the main street two abreast. The townsfolk stepped aside and bowed as they recognised the prince, who waved back in acknowledgement. Then they were at the town gates which were swung open for them and they were outside, riding across the bare ground to the first of the farms. To the right stood the new stables and Jorqel led them up to them and dismounted. Gavan climbed down too but the rest remained in their saddles. The two equines were taken by two of the men while Jorqel and Gavan walked up to the side of the freshly erected main building, intended as the accommodation block.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jorqel said, slapping the wall.
“Yes, sire. When do you hope to fill it?”
“That’s the important question, Gavan. When?” Jorqel slid his hand along the wall as he walked slowly alongside, then dropped it to his side. “When indeed? We need equines fit for the task. Female equines, true, but these will take years to mature and train. What we need are female equines already trained and used to the work, and we can then mate them with our own chargers at our leisure.”
“Sire, the only trained equines I can think of belong to the Tybar.”
Jorqel chuckled and nodded.
“Sire – you’re not thinking of – acquiring them from the enemy, are you?”
“Why not? These scum have slaughtered their way through imperial territory, killing and raping and burning. They have destroyed a thousand years of imperial rule, customs and ways of life here without a moment’s thought. Time we took something from them, and I’m thinking it would be ironic if it were something that may lead in time to their defeat.”
Gavan looked dubious. “We have nobody trained to use arrows from the saddle, sire.”
“Not yet, but if we announce in Lodria, and even Bathenia, that we wish to create and train up a new elite arm of mounted warriors, and select the best hundred and sixty candidates, then I cannot see how we can have a shortage of takers.”
“To train them and house them here will cost an enormous amount of money, sire, believe me.”
Jorqel turned and faced his aide. “I’m fully aware of that, Gavan. I have a plan in my head that will provide us with money and the savings from my personal treasury that will enable me to fund this project. Believe me, we need to fight these filthy Tybar with their own weapons and tactics. Foot soldiers can’t catch them and are easy targets; this has been proved to our cost over the past decade. Now we must adapt or fall. I will not allow this to happen.”
Gavan rubbed his stomach. He wasn’t sure whether he was going to throw up again or not. His stomach was feeling peculiar. “Sire, if I understand you correctly, then, you’re proposing we ride over to enemy territory, steal some equines and bring them here.”
“I’m proposing you ride over there, yes. Clearly I cannot.”
Gavan shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “You, sire, if I may be so bold, are crazy. It’s a long ride over hilly terrain. The roads in western Lodria are terrible; have you seen them? Then we have no idea where the frontier actually is. On top of that I have no idea, and I expect everyone else equally has none, of where to find Tybar soldiers who have these equines. Then we have to bring them back over hostile territory, probably pursued, and return here safely!”
Jorqel pursed his lips, thinking over the sequence, then nodded. “I’m confident you can plan a theft accordingly and get away with it.”
Gavan kicked a stone along the ground. “It will have to be before the winter sets in; up there in the highlands of Kaprenia it’s going to be colder than here, that’s a fact!”
“Then start thinking. Meanwhile, I’m going to start my personal survey of Lodria, visiting as many noble estates as possible. It won’t hurt to remind them I’m capable of riding to their homes rather than skulking in Slenna. The Sendral estates are not too far and we can be there and back before dark.”
“You planning on seeing all nine noble families with eligible daughters, sire?”
“Of course; I can hardly show a preference. I’ll need to have the support of the majority of nobles here in order to get Lodria profitable once more. If I get resistance from the noble families it’ll make my job that much harder – and prevent Slenna from being expanded.”
They returned to their group and mounted up. The road that led from Slenna ran through the farms situated close to the town, and ran almost straight along the p
lains until it met the main north-south road that connected together all the settlements of the coastal region of Lodria. The northern end finished at the River Mendar, and from there it ran due south, passing the port of Efsia, the town of Slenna, crossed the River Slenna and then ran to the Bathenian border, after which it continued onto Niake.
They took the left-hand route and trotted along the dirt road. In centuries past it had been paved but time, the weather and natural disasters had ruined the old imperial road, and now all that was left was a pale shadow, occasionally paved but mostly packed earth hiding the jagged edges of a once great thoroughfare. A short time after turning onto it they passed workers, tending the fields of wheat. It was getting close to the harvest and if they were to have bread to eat that autumn and winter, then they would have to get the harvest in before the weather turned and ruined the crop.
Other crops were growing in the fields. Cereals, animal feed and root vegetables could be seen. Lodria’s coastal plain was perfect for the growing of these whereas as the land rose in the hinterland, it became more suited to wool-beasts and other grazing animals. Here though the land was rich and money was to be made by someone. Dotted amongst the farms were estates owned by wealthy landowners, and one of these was the Sendral family. Jorqel wasn’t looking forward all that much to reacquainting himself with the possessive Zana, but perhaps in the comfort of her own home she may be different.
The fields began to change as they neared the turning into the Sendral Estate, marked by a pair of stone columns linked overhead by an iron arch with the name of the family inset. A stone wall ran along the side of the road for a short distance from either side of the entrance, and the mounted men turned and rode under the archway into the estate. Neat orchards alternated with fields full of crops, and Jorqel made a careful note of everything he saw. He would not be pleased if the people of the province struggled and the rich estates lived in relative luxury; his father had promised all that this would cease. The indolence and selfishness of the nobility had led, so Astiras believed, to the rotten state of the empire. Food needed to be properly distributed to the towns and cities and not kept away and then sold at exorbitant prices to desperate and hungry people. Such abuses would not be tolerated in the new Kastania. If it continued, then any new conquering people might be seen as welcome liberators of an oppressive system. Kastania needed to come together now, more than at any other time in its long and somewhat chequered history.